


Not Without End

by almostunadulteratedmiracle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Nightmares, Shapeshifting, but sometimes also fluff and hot chocolate, implied death of non-main characters, refernces to past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 15:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17645084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostunadulteratedmiracle/pseuds/almostunadulteratedmiracle
Summary: What happens when a witch barges in in the middle of the night to caution you against wasting miracles? Unlike our heroes, you should probably listen...





	1. Prologue - Better than Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotASpaceAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/gifts).



> Written for Not-A-Space-Alien for the 2018 Good Omens Holiday Exchange. 
> 
> Summary: Years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley and Aziraphale have had their fair share of (mis)adventures, and they just want to enjoy a cosy life full of convenient miracles in their little cottage. However, a series of unexpected events draws the very personal attention of every magical being. Heaven and Hell might be racing to unravel the mystery, but a certain witch is leagues ahead of them both...
> 
> (Note: Thank you to The Librarians for the concept of mathe-magics, which this author would love to practice next to its less occult, more ordinary counterpart.)

If you want to imagine the past, think of a small workroom gradually becoming covered in old, hand-written notes, freshly printed articles on harsh white sheets of paper always just on the edge of yellowing with age. Look at how the shelves finally get buried under piles of unknowable machine-parts, and the seemingly functional, albeit mysterious machines themselves carefully balanced on top of them. Watch as the desk labours under the weight of books and never-sleeping computers. Forget the original pastel colours of the walls, as a tapestry of photos, graphs, post-its and multi-coloured strings evolves over them.

And, eventually, welcome in the messy cushions and the old woollen blanket that take up residence in a corner, serving as a makeshift bed every once in a while in the small hours of the morning. Listen to the lullaby of a kindred voice, speaking of unspeakable secrets of our world, and turning out to not know all that much about them, after all. Take in the ticking of a lanky standing clock with unnecessarily many hands, interspersed with the “pings” of new messages about the limits of possibilities and the dismissal of probabilities.

Imagine a dark and stormy night - because if this particular witch has to obey the narrative laws of the universe, working in that cramped room day and night as her genius unfolds, then so does the weather.

Imagine a lightning strike and some equipment that fails to join the blackout… and a couple, staring at the screens first in content, and then in absolute shock.

“Is this for sure?” the man asks.

“Yes,” the woman answers. “Mathe-magics has never lied before.”

They look at each other in the artificial blue-white light, nod much more grimly than their age should allow, and let their machines join the blackout. There may come a time, after all, when every tiny bit counts.


	2. Interrupted

If you want to imagine the present, imagine an equally dark, but quietly rainy night. Listen to the pitter-patter of droplets on the roof of a lone cottage, and a pristine greenhouse, which definitely should not be able to fit all the plants that it does. Watch the blinking lights in the windows showing an old-looking, but secretly very modern television set hard at work. Don’t necessarily pay very close attention to it, because every movie left in the DVD-player attached to this particular telly for more than a fortnight transforms into Bohemian Rhapsody anyway…

“‘s a good movie,” Crowley mumbled over the credits, his tongue lazy after the deluge of wine that it had very recently survived.

“All I’m saying is… right? I’m saying is all… all is… ‘s a bit diffra-... duffer-... it changes every time,” Aziraphale said, not much more eloquently, in spite of his best intentions.

“I think the dina-... the velcro-... the _dinos_ make it be’er,” Crowley insisted.

“You think lizards make _everything_ better, my dear,” Aziraphale observed, sobering up a little. He was very grateful for the small but persevering part of his mind that reminded him they had plans _other_ than getting drunk that night.

“Well, they do,” Crowley replied, following the angel’s example. “Look at palaeontology. ’s funny.”

“You old serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly, reaching out to ruffle the long-suffering demon’s hair.

“Silly angel,” Crowley countered after deciding not to slither out from under the pleasantly warm touch, his integrity be damned (which it kind of was anyway).

What that certain silly angel registered from all this, was that his beloved demon was letting out content little hisses (which were, in spite of the sound, strangely reminiscent of a cat’s purring). And once this hissing purr began, sleep would follow soon enough. That hadn’t been the original plan for the evening, but seeing all worry finally leave Crowley’s face as he drifted off was something that Aziraphale could never resist seeing (or bringing about, if he could).

Now that he thought about it, the couch was comfortable enough… indulging in a little sleep before summoning a new book to read was a sound enough plan. Maybe with a glass or three more of that wine…

While he focused on refilling the discarded bottle and getting the taste _just_ right, Aziraphale momentarily stopped caressing the dozing demon, and came to rest his hand on the back of the other’s neck.

He nearly fell to the floor in shock when Crowley jumped up, hissing in a way that was decidedly not blissful anymore. In fact, it had a rather threatening edge, possibly covering something else… but really, once the demon’s mind got going, it was difficult to keep up with the frenzy of thoughts and feelings chasing one another through it, even for another supernatural being.

“Are you… quite all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, wishing fervently that he had been able to come up with something more appropriate to say. However, even this took him long enough that, regrettably, Crowley was trying to cover the facts and causes of his unusual behaviour by the time he spoke.

“It’ssss… fine,” Crowley answered, biting down on his tongue to stop hissing again. For an occult creature, he was an incredibly bad liar - which he made up for by trying to be twice as secretive and half as trusting, Aziraphale thought to himself with a sigh.

As if to offer confirmation, Crowley covered his eyes with a pair of freshly miracled sunglasses, and stiffly folded his hands behind his back in an attempt to stop any possible flow of non-verbal clues.

“You really don’t have to-...” Aziraphale started to say; however, he was interrupted by a round of echoing thunder coming from behind.

Whirling around in alarm (it _wasn’t_ a stormy night, after all), he saw that it had only been the door, snapping open with far more force than physically necessary, bringing down the equivalents of doors on a number of ethereal and occult defences around the cottage with it.

“Next time, pick up the phone - and just stop miracling everything left and right!” a soaked, furious, and mildly terrifying Anathema shouted at them from the threshold.

Without further ado, she marched into the hall, dropped her coat on a chair next to the fireplace to dry, and faced the flabbergasted pair with as much certainty in her smart brown eyes as angels rarely saw in human gazes.

The door creaked accusingly.

“Sorry for barging in,” the young witch offered curtly. “But you’re really hard to find, and we have to talk.”

“Can’t it wait until-”

“No, it can’t wait until morning, or until whenever you remember that you are supposed to check your messages.”

“All right,” Aziraphale conceded, suddenly unsure whether his phone was even in the hundred-mile vicinity, “what is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“If I’m right - and I _am_ \- then we all are,” she said gravely. “Listen to me, and, for once, listen as if you would be speaking to Agnes: you must learn to get by without miracles, _now_ , or you will be made to learn to stop using magic - wasting magic - the hard way.”


	3. Old Routine

The future held surprisingly few surprises (for a while). Spring became summer, summer quickly faded into autumn, autumn into winter, and winter into spring…

… when finally, Crowley had had enough of the _idiotic_ nightmares. After discretely going through all known herbal remedies, his last ray of hope was that a change of scenery would keep the blasted things away. It had been suspiciously easy to convince Aziraphale to spend some time in London again, even without giving him any hints at the actual reason at all. A small part of the demon’s mind was telling him that whatever fragile companionship they had managed to build up through millennia of hard work and barely seeing each other, quickly soured and turned into something boring or uncomfortable once they had moved in together. At least that must have been how things appeared from an ethereal point of view.

For now, though, a significantly greater part of his mind was preoccupied hoping (not quite praying) that he wouldn’t have to relive the same stupid nightmare over and over again if they moved away from the place where it was first triggered.

That part of his mind was, however, forced to shut up and keep waiting: the first night back in Mayfair, sleep avoided him by about a hundred million miles. And he couldn’t keep trying indefinitely: he had a date with Aziraphale and with the well-fed descendants of some equally well-fed ducks. And, demonic appearances be damned (which they kind of were already), he would make sure to give them healthy food this time.

To Crowley’s eternal disgruntlement, they never actually got as far as feeding (or, in his case, also obligatorily sinking a few of) the ducks. Walking down the astonishingly unchanged path, all of a sudden, he found himself pushed into a nearby bush by Aziraphale, who was already running away - towards something bright and bluish and slightly painful over the water, which had decidedly not been there just a second before.

Three things went through Crowley’s sleep-deprived mind at the same time. The first one was that the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule. The second one reminded him that he was being grumpy, and he should consider what the bright and painful thing might be before he jumped to conclusions. Finally, the third one told him that there was an inexperienced, defenceless angel somewhere on Earth, and he should capture the unlucky enemy soldier and interrogate them.

A reeling fourth thought joined the party belatedly, informing him that the third thought hadn’t been his own at all; rather, it was an assignment straight from Hell.

Crowley stood up with a grunt, and, coming back to his second thought, stayed behind the cover of the closest tree until the blue light above the water faded. He watched with some trepidation as a very unsettled Aziraphale made his way back to the offending bush, searching for some words somewhere between the truth and a lie that he could safely share with his counterpart. Suddenly, Crowley felt glad that his sunglasses had survived the undignified fall he took, and kept his prickling eyes safely in their shadows.

“I’ve got an assignment from Heaven,” the angel began cautiously.

“I’ve got one from Hell,” Crowley nodded. He could dig up no hint of willingness to follow his orders, of course… but he also couldn’t quite see a way out of them yet. The best thing to do was probably to just stay in the loop for now, he decided. “Should we coordinate the search?” he offered.

“No, I… it’s Heaven. They told me already where I’m supposed to go.”

“Oh. I see. Well… I suppose they also know which one of you harp-wrenchers snuck out?”

“For the last time, Crowley, you know very well that we do not actually have harps, and, more importantly… no one snuck out. Apparently, it was some sort of accident?”

“How does an angel _accidentally_ end up down here?” Crowley wondered.

“I have no idea, but I should go before they do something to draw too much attention.”

“Or to hurt people.”

“... or that,” Aziraphale allowed with some reluctance. “I’ll make sure to give you an acceptable reason to lose my trail, if you want?”

“Yes, please,” Crowley accepted with a grin. His mood and the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist), he found himself enjoying a little of the old-fashioned sneaking around. “Just warn a guy before you bless the rain next time, eh?”

“Will do, my dear. Oh, and I’m sorry we couldn’t see the ducks, my dear.”

“The ducks will be there long after our visitor’s gone,” Crowley said dismissively.

“And sorry I shoved you like that, didn’t really have time to think,” the angel added. “Here, let me at least mend that tear in your shirt,” he insisted, and started waving his hand very ineffectively. “I must be too distracted…”

“Leave it angel,” Crowley mumbled, entirely unconvinced by that conclusion. But they had more pressing matters at hand. “Just take care of that celestial leak, and let me know when we can talk safely?”

“Will do, dear. Find some cover after the first thunder?”

“Will do,” Crowley promised, too. “Good luck, angel.”

He stayed in the shelter of vegetation for a little while, until Aziraphale was far enough away that all the other secret agents in the park wouldn’t be suspicious if he started following the hurrying angel. In the meantime, he had some opportunity to work on that stubborn tear on his sleeve - which took him exactly four attempts to magically vanish.

A new entry made it all the way to second place on the list of his worries, overshadowed only by the presence of some uninvited angel no Earth: that there might be something wrong with his (and Aziraphale’s) miracling skills. And at the worst possible time, too.

He adjusted his sunglasses, and marched out of the park with much of his old mistrust of the world firmly in place once again.


	4. Like Lightning from Heaven

Three days later, Aziraphale felt frustrated and exhausted in equal measure.

He had found his decidedly panicky and clumsy colleague in the wax museum, hovering invisibly among the statues of long-since-dead musicians, and watching with intense trepidation as the unsuspecting living walked by them and as some tried to prod them.

As his calming thoughts weren’t quite getting through to the unprepared visitor, Aziraphale unceremoniously grabbed them by an ethereal tendril, and dragged them outside, all the way back to his dustier-than-usual bookshop.

There, he finally stopped for an explanation forced into the other’s still reeling mind (perhaps with somewhat more force than was strictly necessary). This, at least, made their struggles stop… only for them to begin an endless stream of complaints with a slight hysteric edge to the thoughts. One piece was a recurring theme:

_“Why didn’t you say something? I thought I was in Hell! With all those dead having lived abominable lives? I thought it was Hell!”_

“Just stay here while I contact someone?” Aziraphale practically begged his unwanted guest in the end.

 _“What should I do?”_ they asked, much to his surprise.

“I don’t know… read a book?” he suggested - a decision which he was sure he would regret later.

Soon enough, though, he forgot all about those minor details. Talking to Heaven was tricky enough sometimes; and convincing them of something was downright impossible in most cases. The long and fruitless argument he had in his back room with three different disgruntled superiors ended up being useful only for one single thing: coaxing a tiny bit more information out of the tight-lipped bureaucrats.

Apparently, they didn’t want to take or even allow the stray angel back into Heaven - mostly, because they genuinely had no idea what had caused this particular being to fall-but-not-Fall, just to take an abrupt stumble down to Earth. When Aziraphale had tried pointing out that this was not really handling the issue, just sticking their collective head in the sand, a very confused gate-keeper didn’t get his reference to ostriches and tore the ethereal connection in overstated anger.

Coming back to the front of the shop wasn’t a much better experience, either, what with the formless presence squeaking at him in alarm:

_“Why do you have all these erroneous Bibles?”_

“To keep the enemy from confusing humans with them,” Aziraphale lied smoothly, mentally thanking Crowley for the useful suggestion, even if it had come in the form of teasing. He sighed, and prepared himself for a stream of terrified protests. “Heaven wants you to stay here.”

 _“What? Why?”_ Formless as the presence may have been, their confusion was almost tangible in the air.

“I’m sure you’ll get some assignment down the line,” Aziraphale offered, not at all certain that suspicious heavenly paper-pushers would ever want anything to do with this unfortunate outcast. Hayliel, he reminded himself. Their name was Hayliel - at least he should think of it, if everyone else was going to pretend to have forgotten that an angel with such a name even existed…

_“But… but…”_

“I’m going to get you a corporation you can use,” Aziraphale pushed on. “It won’t be an officially tailored and bestowed one, so it might be a bit of an uncomfortable fit, but it’s better than nothing. I’m sure you’ll get used to it quite soon,” he lied, wondering quietly when he had made that much of a habit out of forging and spreading untruths, and whether he was doing it to Crowley, too.

_“But…”_

“Just stay here and wait until I come back.”

_“But… Aziraphale, I don’t know anything about Earth! All I ever did was keep records on extinct species! I’ve never actually been here! I even mixed it up with Hell! I thought I had fallen and ended up in Hell!”_

“I’ll help you adjust, Hayliel, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll do splendid work soon enough,” Aziraphale said, not sure anymore how much of that was merely wishful thinking, and how much of it a blatant lie. “But I really must go now. The sooner we get started, the better.”

… but it wasn’t better. Not really. Sure, smuggling a comatose body without any current occupier out of the hospital was a bit of a tricky task, but Aziraphale had been convinced it would help. After all, Hayilel had been through enough trauma recently, they couldn’t just be asked to reanimate and inhabit a corpse. An empty, but technically living shell was the better option, for certain. Corporations without bespoke tailoring were always a little uncomfortable, however, they easily beat being an ineffectual formless presence for any duration.

He just hadn’t expected this specific corporation’s voice to be quite so high-pitched, that was all.

Or Hayliel to have all the grace and understanding of Earth of a human toddler.

It took him three entire days to get away from his clingy guest for long enough to let Crowley know what had happened - and that they wouldn’t be meeting up anytime soon. Aziraphale could practically see all the glass and crystal accessories in their beloved Ritz shatter from the scream Hayliel would let out if she were to see the two of them spending so much as a minute together without visible signs of barbaric enmity.


	5. It's a Wonderful(l) World

Even at the end of summer, it was way too bright and hot as Hell outside - and Crowley should know, he had been there.

Even on a summer night such as this, he had to find the saying was true: there was no rest for the wicked.

“Crowley, a fellow agent is coming up and you have to assist- nevermind,” the radio blared at him. It had been doing that, for a while. After the first two such aborted calls, he actually flew to the coordinates that had already been shoved into his head, only to find the unreasonably strong scent of sulphur at the site of a minor volcanic eruption. On the third occasion, he was actually prepared, camping out at a generally restless Mount Etna, just close enough to the site of the eruption to see the hellfire-tainted lava burn up something that had definitely come from Hell, but was, as of that moment, entirely powerless.

Mortified, he rolled halfway down the slope before his cold and numb limbs managed to stop his stumbling, and his wings could be made to carry him far, far away from the scene.

That had been a dozen calls ago.

Demons were still dying left and right, Crowley had no idea why, and, worse still, he couldn’t even fully trust his own abilities anymore. Ever since that day in St. James’ Park, there had been… incidents. Little moments when a miracle took multiple attempts, or just far longer to work than a momentary feat of magic should ever have.

And worst of all? He didn’t have anywhere he could turn to for a little help. The other realms were, of course, out of the question, humans didn’t have any reason to know even as much as he did about current events, and Aziraphale… Aziraphale was busy these days.

Just as demons were turning up dead semmingly ever more often, angels kept turning up in what Aziraphale had described as a severe lack of intention snd corporation. And, lone bookworm as the pudgy angel may have once been, he ended up taking all the others under his wings, figuratively speaking.

Or maybe quite literally, too - a supremely unhelpful part of Crowley’s mind supplied. He knew from experience just how comfortable those messy wings could be, and envied those angels their places in their soft cocoon.

But it was understandable if Aziraphale preferred their company, wasn’t it? They could be his shiny new collection, and their absolute lack of field experience could make him feel like a wise leader without requiring much effort: the perfect soil for the normally mostly controlled vestiges of the angel’s vanity. And wasn’t it just easier to be among his own kind? Obviously, it wasn’t like that for demons, but Crowley reckoned it must be the case for the other side.

And so, he ended up quietly avoiding the angel colony that had reared its head near St Paul’s - including his own age-old counterpart. At least the other blasted feather-brains wouldn’t find out about their business partnership. Apart from a few strained phone calls, there had been no contact between Earth’s senior field agents for months by now.

Which was all well and good from a survival point of view, but which left Crowley all alone with the mystery of demons and volcanoes and malfunctioning miracles. (And just alone in general - but he wasn’t quite at the point of admitting that yet.)

No one had any idea what was really going on, or, at the very least, no one had thought to tell Crowley…

… except, that wasn’t _entirely_ true. There was one theory out there… even if it was very much _out there_. But what did he have to lose?

With this cheerful rationale, and The Prophet’s Song (by “Beethoven”) blaring on full volume, Crowley drove up to the North to locate a certain witch with whom they hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms with. But, to be fair, he never would have thought there may come a point when he would find himself dwelling on her warning to use magic sparingly…

To his utter surprise, a very familiar disheveled pearly feather greeted him at the threshold of the Device house. Instantly on full alert, he listened to the voices coming from inside, fearing that Aziraphale might not have come here alone.

“No, I don’t recall any prophecy at all that speaks of angels halfway falling _after the Apocalypse up to which point the prophecies went_ ,” Anathema was saying, slightly exasperated. “But I do have a theory that can explain such an occurrence.”

“And much more,” Newt added without much enthusiasm. Cursed to break technology as he might have been, he was one of those people who could sense a conflict building from a mile and a week away, Crowley had learnt early on.

“If you are referring to the, frankly, ridiculous warnings you came to shout at us that night-”

“Yes, I am! Why is it so impossible to believe it, though? Do you _know_ , do you _really_ know it’s not the case?” Anathema asked, sounding a tiny bit like she was hoping to be proven wrong. Which made sense: after all, scientifically-minded as though she was, she was still a gifted witch, mixing those two traditionally opposed areas for a living. Or for a pastime. You could never be entirely sure with witches.

“Well, not per se, but…”

“There you go, then. You have your explanation.”

“Yes, and it’s _wrong_ -”

“Is it really?” Crowley asked, faking the perfect flippancy to play devil’s advocate from behind the cover of the door. He was very satisfied with his entrée, right up to the point where Newt let him into the house, and he could guess from the man’s oddly sympathetic expression that he wasn’t doing such a stellar job of hiding his worries.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Aziraphale questioned, giving him a quick once-over. “And how long has it been since you had some proper sleep?”

“I’ve stocked up a century’s worth of sleep, remember?” Crowley half-answered with a shrug. He resisted the urge to adjust his sunglasses, or to rub at his prickling eyes behind them. “And apparently, we’re here for the same reason - we’re both out of ideas.”  
“What do you mean, both?”

“I thought you usually coordinate…?” Anathema asked quietly. She looked very much like she was going to continue, but Newt’s urging hand on her shoulder was enough to make her reconsider.

“Not so much… recently… ah, what with all the other angels around, you understand…” Aziraphale mumbled, cheeks promisingly rosy with embarrassment.

“Anyway, angel, I think she’s right,” Crowley mercifully cut in. “Or, at least, no one has a better theory, and we should be better safe than sorry. Demons keep popping up, too, just like your feathery little congregation - the only difference is, the ones from Down Below don’t survive the trip.”

“Alarming as that is, my dear, I don’t see what it has to do with her theory…?”

“Well, I don’t see it, either, but she said it fits, and she’s been right about the miracles.”

“I have?” Anathema asked, partly astonished, but mostly, frightened.

“Yes…?” Crowley offered uncertainly. Making sense of the witch’s reactions was, he decided, once and for all well beyond his capabilities. “Didn’t you think so?”

“Well, yes, obviously, but… you should have admitted it long ago, or not admitted it at all!”

“What? Why?”

“You should have noticed the trouble with conjuring, what with all the ridiculous and unnecessary miracles you both keep performing day by day, I don’t know, at least a year ago, I think? Or not noticed it at all, which would have meant I was wrong - and I would be so glad if that were the case…”

“Well, I only saw something fishy when we went back to London in the spring,” Crowley clarified.

“Oh, you mean that silly little thing with the tear on your shirt?” Aziraphale asked, adding some decidedly forced laughter. “I told you, dear boy, I was just distracted…”

“Hm, quite. And, pray tell, have you been distracted a lot lately, angel?” the demon countered sharply.

“I have a lot on my mind,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“Oh my God, you have, haven’t you…” the realisation broke out of Newt, possibly without consulting the greater part of his brain before doing so.

“It doesn’t mean a thing! You try taking care of a group of sheltered angels who are just on the verge of figuring out that Heaven wants nothing to do with them-”

“Hang on, what was that? Why?” Crowley interrupted.

“Superstitious fear?” Newt suggested helpfully. And insightfully, judging by the ashen look in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Well, the powers-”

“Of course, powers! I must have used the wrong power-law!” Anathema cut the evolving explanation short with an excited cry. “But that’s good news! It means the process is slower than I had estimated - we have more time to sort things out!”

“Er… great. Now, could you just tell the rest of us what it is exactly that needs sorting out - and how?” Crowley inquired, seeing his own bafflement mirrored in the other two men’s (or man-shaped being’s) expressions.

“The world is trying to go out with a whimper, but we won’t let it,” Anathema declared, her ominous tone made somewhat ineffective only by the very schoolteacher-like act of dragging a portable blackboard out from a corner.


	6. A Resourceful Quest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: Dear reader, if you absolutely detest [even fictional] physics, please jump to the paragraph after the asterisks if you want to preserve your Christmas cheer and peace of mind.)

Aziraphale found that one of the most useful skills he had picked up on Earth was crafting a proper apology, accompanied by genuine feelings of regret and enormous relief when forgiveness was received.

He also found that all of this couldn’t make up for the horrible truths of that day that he had to learn from a witch who showed more determination in her research of the supernatural than even most ethereal or occult beings did in loving or in hating humanity, respectively.

This second time around, he managed to pay close attention to her explanation, and keep an open mind (with some nudging from Crowley). And the picture she painted looked somewhat like this: the world wasn’t ending. _Magic_ was.

In a world with a small population, there were very few magic users, and also very little need to disrupt natural processes with spells or miracles. But the practically bottomless well of magical potential, which was woven into the fabric of the Universe, and which was a concept that confused both Aziraphale and Crowley to no end, could have been enough to fulfil the needs of the overpopulated globe, and the drastically increased necessity for miraculous interventions, for tens if not hundreds of thousands of years.

Except, the world wasn’t necessarily meant to last that long. Possibly, not even as long as it already had…

Cancelling out all the consequences of the aborted Apocalypse, turning back the clock, in a way, had been an… well, _apocalyptic_ drain on magical reserves. In short, magic was a non-renewable resource, and it was starting to show now that it had become scarce. Magical potential energy - whatever it really was - was generally low by now, unevenly distributed, and having some difficulties striving towards a state of equilibrium, being drawn to actual magic-users as it was.

* * *

After going through a series of comparisons that were meaningless from a non-human perspective, Anathema managed to find a way to illustrate what her countless hours of aural observations had led her to conclude: magic was a tiny bit like rain. Ignoring the quantifiable physical description, magic could be imagined as a swirling cloud that filled all the world, unseen by anyone who was not focusing on actually noticing its haze. To become visible, and to affect the miracle-thirsty world, it needed condensation cores: creatures wanting to cast or conjure. Spells condensed around magic-users in the same way, no matter if they were angels, demons, witches, or something in-between: they drew nearby parts of the inert cloud to themselves by their belief (in magic and in their envisioned success), and forced it to condense into “raindrops” of miracles.

Now, though, the cloud was thinning out and breaking up - except, the metaphor ended there, because there was no sun to shine through, and nothing to replenish it, unlike in the earthly water cycle. Magic was a strictly non-renewable resource, and now that the cloud looked more like patches than a continuous cover, it had become fickle and slow. Just as Anathema had predicted on that stormy night, and tried to convey on that much less dramatic rainy night, there was too little of it around to uphold the illusion of perfection. Miracles would occasionally (ever more often) not be instantaneous, but instead, need time to syphon enough energy and condense into reality. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even work - when there wasn’t enough raw magic floating around at all to complete the spell. Much like a raindrop that never fell, that failed miracle had “removed” a tiny bit of cloud, but not provided any actual water to the parched ground.

At that point, Aziraphale had found himself quite involuntarily mimicking Crowley in nodding along. From what was probably days’ worth of conversations with the brilliant witch he’d had in the past, he knew that Anathema had irrevocably won both of them over. This was how it always worked: she would ask lots of questions, including lots of uncomfortable ones, spend some time drawing or calculating, then come up with an answer to a question Aziraphale hadn’t even realised he should have been asking. This was the same process, just on a longer time-scale… and with unnerving instead of astonishing results at the end.

Because minor miracles failing? That was just the beginning. It must have been going on for longer than either of them realised, but, to be fair, it was very difficult to tell a drunken lack of concentration and the scarcity of unknown resources apart. In any case, they were now low enough on mystical reserves, that the magically supported parts of the world order themselves had become faulty.

In laymen’s terms (which Crowley and Aziraphale had thanked Newt very much for), between the patchy clouds of magic that kept the realms separated, there were now occasional holes in Heaven and Hell. Falling through them wouldn’t hurt an angel: the magical malfunction would be only momentary, thus it would end well before said angel could hit the ground. They could all land safely, if somewhat confused, on Earth - as opposed to demons. Hell wasn’t a friendly environment, to any of its denizens - a momentary slip in defences was enough for it to do irreversible damage.

… hence the sulphuric ashes and aborted orders Crowley reported.

All in all, while it all meant slightly alarming and depressing things to look forward to for magic users (human or otherwise), Aziraphale didn’t find the situation particularly dangerous. Neither did Crowley - if anything, he seemed slightly relieved now that the mystery was solved.  
… until their little world of illusions was shattered by a very human and logical conclusion.

“But this means that, after a while, _everyone_ in Heaven and Hell will end up on Earth, doesn’t it?” Newt pointed out, fiddling with a pencil that chose this exact moment to snap in two. “I mean, we’ve already got a massively overpopulated globe, so, how… uh… how many is _everyone_?”

“Forget the numbers,” Anathema shook her head, “we probably won’t live long enough to feel the effects of that.”

“And why is that, pray tell?” Aziraphale asked. He didn’t intend to sound grumpy, he honestly didn’t… but there was only so much world-shattering change he could take in all at once, knowing full well that he would be powerless to stop it. One Apocalypse was more than enough for a lifetime.

“Because everyone includes those sodding idiots who wanted to fight their final battle on Earth in the first place. Their resources might be limited once they get here, but they will have just enough time to send this whole planet up in flames before they run out,” Anathema explained. Calm and collected as she spoke, Aziraphale still hadn’t heart a prophecy more chilling than her calculated prediction. Maybe _exactly because_ it was so well-founded, it sounded far more certain and inevitable than hazy references made by confused fortune-tellers.

“Is there _nothing_ we can do?” Crowley asked - ever the questioning one. Although the demon would deny its very existence, that inalterable spark of restless optimism brought a small smile to Aziraphale’s face.

“Of course there is,” Anathema said in the off-handed manner of someone who had a reply ready well before the question ever occurred to anyone else. “We can find Adam.”

“Hang on - find him? I thought you two were keeping in touch?” Aziraphale wondered.

“Yes, well, he hasn’t been replying to any sort of message, occult or otherwise. He knew what I was working on, but by the time I figured out what was going to happen, he was nowhere to be found.”

“What about his friends?”

“They are either just as clueless as I am, or very tight-lipped about his whereabouts.”

“Let’s suppose for a moment that we do find him,” Crowley said, “which I’m not saying we will, but let’s suppose we do - what then?”

“Then he can put things right - for real this time.”

“Meaning?”

“Eventually, it came down to him to stop the Apocalypse the first time around. It was him, who used all the resources the world had to offer to save it. He’s the last great focal point of magic - and he can use whatever remains to create more.”

“Couldn’t _we_ just-”

“Not how it works, sorry. He could have done his whole saving the world thing from power that he made - I don’t know why he didn’t do it, since he has always had this ability. It needs a spark of outside energy to start off the chain reaction, as I understand, but afterwards, it all falls into special Antichrist territory. Let’s just say that I’m not quite at the point of figuring out how that works.”

A meaningful glance was shared between the rest of the people (or person-shaped beings) in the room that said thank _Someone_ she’s not at that point. She was already more than qualified to demonstrate how powerful and _terrifying_ knowledge could be.

They parted ways peacefully, if among lingering thoughtful glances that quickly became uncomfortable. In the suddenly all too oppressive silence of the street, Aziraphale couldn’t bear not to keep talking to his long-not-seen counterpart.

“It’s strange how we ended up doing kind of what we had set out to do originally, even though nothing worked out how we planned, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we thought by interfering with Hell’s plans, we would only postpone the inevitable by another eleven years. It’s funny how that worked out…”

“Not really,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale took a good, long look at him.

“No,” he said, sobering up. “Not really, I suppose. It’s just…”

“It’s just like you always say,” Crowley interrupted. “You can’t second-guess ineffability,” he quoted, distorting his voice - without miracles, for once - to sound brighter and more full.

“Crowley, are we… I know I’ve been busy lately, but… I thought you understood…”

“Oh, I understand,” he snapped. _“Do I have any other choice?”_ his impenetrable sunglasses accused.

Hardly knowing what to say at that point, Aziraphale was shamefully happy that his phone went off and interrupted their confusing moment. That is, he was happy until he heard the voice on the other end, panicky and high-pitched as ever.

“No, don’t!” he nearly shouted at the speaker. “Hayliel, you have to stop them - they’ll flood the whole bloody city! I don’t care who they think they saw, they have to wait until I get there! And that goes for you, too - yes, you can take that as an order!”

He quickly ended the call while he had the upper hand, trying to work out how to apologise to Crowley for having to rush off and get the angel colony in check - but the demon was nowhere to be found.


	7. Exponential Growth

The miserable October rain was just preparing to turn into miserable November rain - it only had to linger for one more day to accomplish that. But the wind started to pick up again, knocking over bins, people, and weaker trees alike. Finally, it managed to shove one of the latter against an ageing lamppost, which, in a not at all comical series of events, ended up causing multiple cars to crash into one another.

The sound startled Crowley awake, and, in spite of the protests of his prickling eyes, he was glad for the interruption. Once again, he found himself coming back to consciousness swimming in a mixture of cold sweat and, embarrassingly enough, venom seeping from his teeth.  
It was only one week! One blasted week that he had spent trapped in snake form a decade ago, and this _idiotic_ thing still kept happening! This was unfair! Ridiculous! This was…

… this was ruining his life, slowly but surely. What little was left of it, anyway, before the second end of the world.

He had liked sleeping, once upon a time, and he still missed it - and not only because of the limited occult reserves he turned towards the upkeep of his corporation nowadays. But every single time he drifted off, even for five minutes, he ended up having nightmares about that one horrendous week. Never mind that ever since he had experienced the uncontrollable rushes of alternating terror and aggression accompanying the process, he set free every snake he found was being milked for their venom… Never mind that he had forced himself to get used to the angel’s unconscious affectionate touches all over again without panicking… No, that one stupid, _stupid_ , meaningless gesture had been enough to bring all of this back.

He rubbed his palms against the back of his neck, and tried to repress the resulting shiver - without much success. He could still feel the ghosts of much harsher, almost burning hot hands linger over there…

But there was no _time_ for this. The world was ending - again - he reminded himself.

He only just caught himself before he would have miracled the pillow clean, and chucked the whole blasted thing into the bin instead. In his opinion, it was far too late to learn to lead a household the entirely human way.

Besides, he was scheduled to pick up Aziraphale soon - there was finally a lead they could follow. He doubted its usefulness; if Adam didn’t want to be found, then an entire colony’s worth of angels working on low-energy remote sensing should not be able to suss any hint of his presence out… but whatever the concentration of power they had found _really_ was, it had to be investigated. Crowley was willing to drive around the Earth three times over for _anything_ that could be helpful against the sanctimonious bastards in the endgame.

The fact that a road trip gave him lots of time to spend near Aziraphale without interruptions was an added bonus. And that it would take him away from the colony of heavenly outcasts? Absolutely marvellous - a sneaky little part of Crowley’s mind supplied, which was soon drowned out in decidedly un-demonic guilt. He shouldn’t want to control who the angel spent his time with, and even if he did manage to influence it - what good would that do in the long run? The feathery idiots were still his kind. What could a prickly, anxious little demon offer in comparison?

But there had to be something, right? It had been Aziraphale who suggested they leave together… and, other than making them work on gathering clues about remaining concentrations of power, he barely engaged with the colony nowadays…

Crowley was still pondering over this, for possibly the millionth time, when he arrived at the bookshop, and saw his favourite tartan disaster walk cheerfully towards the Bentley. Soon enough, they distracted themselves with small talk, and then with a somewhat more serious discussion about the infinitesimal progress they had made. It wasn’t an especially engaging topic, and Crowley couldn’t help keep yawning through it. Which, in turn, inevitably led to a hundred questions from the angel, leaving him with no other options than to either pull up all his defences and start a senseless argument, or to share a tiny bit of the annoying truth. For some reason - maybe owing to the soft weight of the pleasantly warm, plump hand over his - Crowley opted for the latter.

“Can’t really sleep recently. I’ve been having nightmares,” he all but whispered, with eyes fixed firmly on the empty road ahead. He patiently listened to all Aziraphale’s suggestions about what remedies he should try - hell, some of them were even funny (yet he had still tried them already). More useful, and, to him, much more important than the angel’s words were the compassion he showed, and his understanding for a habit he had for the longest time not condoned (what with evil never really sleeping and virtue being ever-vigilant).

Maybe, one day, Crowley would even be able to tell him what the nightmares were _about_. For now, the very thought made him shiver as he tasted venom in his mouth.

He stepped down on the accelerator, and, in a nearly uncharacteristic burst of attentiveness, Aziraphale took this as a sign to change the topic.

“I’m glad you told me, my dear,” he said still, before he started asking about what music currently resided in the glove compartment. He laughed for minutes and minutes - a deep, rolling, bubbly sound that warmed Crowley’s heart - when he learned it was an _actual_ best of Queen collection - one that had been factory-made, rather than magically transformed. Just for the sake of novelty, they absolutely had to listen to it now, from beginning to end.


	8. Power Laws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: it's not *too* explicit, but like the majority of the warnings are because of this chapter.)

The weather either didn’t take well to the departure of magic from the world, or it just wanted to make up for having been too nice the last time the Apocalypse had rolled around. In any case, a Halloween snowstorm was raging with full force in the night. Aziraphale made sure his favourite, slightly cold-blooded demon was bundled up well, before they got out of the car. Between miracling the roads clean for it, or conjuring a few extra layers of clothing, the latter decidedly seemed like it would be less of a waste of scarce resources. He sighed at his own reminder at just how exhausting it was, thinking of magic like ancient hunter-gatherers had thought of and treasured food and water.

They leaned forward to push against the bitter wind, and made slow progress together - right until the moment when an extraordinarily strong gust shoved them off of their feet. As they tumbled through the snow, long-forgotten fighting instincts screamed danger at both of them: this was not just any gust of wind, but a blow coming from swiftly striking _wings_ upon landing. And to cause this much of a blast, well, that required a multitude of wings…

Aziraphale did not have nightmares. (He didn’t usually sleep, for that matter.) But if he had, they would have gone something like this:

“I always knew you could not be trusted to resist the Serpent’s temptations,” the Archangel Gabriel said, voice dripping with malice and contempt for the both of them. He was towering over a statue-still Crowley, keeping the demon motionless with a gleaming-glowing holy sword pointed straight at his heart.

Aziraphale didn’t have nightmares, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been preparing for them.

“I was actually following him hoping to find out more about the cause of recent events,” he lied smoothly. “Now, of course, the game is up, we can’t expect him to give up his information willingly. I know the perfect place to lock him away, though-”

“Yes. It’s called non-existence,” Gabriel countered, entirely untouched by the stream of carefully crafted falsities. The sword moved an inch downwards, and Crowley tried to push himself deeper into the snow to avoid it.

“Wait, I’ll tell you everything!” the demon offered - the closest he could come to begging for his life to a creature such as this.

“You have no information of value. You two traitorous idiots might not be aware, but I know exactly what is happening and why. And that ultimately, it’s your fault," the archangel declared. “You would deserve a much more painful death for this, but I will take what I can get.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Aziraphale said, surprising even himself by how calmly he had managed to speak. He was openly disobeying, Crowley’s life was in danger, and in the midst of all that, here he was, carefully and calmly measuring up his enemy - his superior - like he had been taught at the beginning of time…

But that was the only way out of a nightmare, wasn’t it? Not caring anymore what fate may befall you?

“I knew you were weak. You would deserve to have Fallen with the others-”

“Yet still, look who has just tumbled down from Heaven,” Aziraphale baited. For once in his life, something worked perfectly: the sword came around in a wide, swooping arc, to point at Aziraphale now, and it was shaking the tiniest bit with uncontrolled anger.

“How dare you-”

“Well, you see, you must be much less intimidating than you think,” Aziraphale offered. It was almost true; the higher-ups tended to think very highly of themselves in every respect (even though they _were_ absolutely terrifying). In any case, it felt insanely good to finally insult one of the bastards.

And it had almost worked, too… however, to Aziraphale’s horror, Crowley jumped up from the ground, and, instead of running away like a sensible demon, tried to grab the archangel’s arm. Probably even he wasn’t sure what he had been hoping to accomplish, but it absolutely didn’t matter: he had had no chance anyway. Still mid-leap, he found himself knocked back down and beaten into submission by battle-hardened wings.

Ignoring the current energy crisis, Aziraphale gathered all his strength and willed the offending wings to break.

His (possibly former) superior let out an ear-splitting cry of pain, and turned on him again, forgetting entirely about the demon at last. This, of course, led to Aziraphale being cornered in a matter of minutes. He acknowledged bitterly that he would spend the last moments of his life pinned to a creaking old tree, with a burning hot sword scraping at his neck. His reserves of fear, just like those of magic nearby, were largely used up. If the remaining snippets of power were evaporating from the world at such a rate that would make a hole in the fabric of Heaven swallow someone as powerful as an archangel, and spit them back out on Earth, there wasn’t much time left for the planet anyway. Far less than he had hoped.

More out of a sense of obligation, than out of hope, he tried to struggle against the iron-strong hold. And, to his endless surprise, it disappeared altogether after a few seconds, as Gabriel fell to the ground, rendered unconscious by some unseen power.

Only when the useless wings floated to the ground, too, and stopped obscuring his view, did he notice the tiny marks of a snake-bite on the other’s left ankle. A harsh discolouration was starting to spread around it already, as whatever bits of the ethereal remained in the stolen corporation, interacted with the hellish venom.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out uncertainly - but no reply came.

A second, more careful look around revealed a nearly circular hole in the pristine snow cover, and at the bottom, a freezing cold, exhausted little snake all coiled up and barely awake.

“Crowley, you can change back now,” Aziraphale whispered.

The serpent peered up at him, and shook its head sadly.

The angel swallowed hard. This was what he had been afraid of since spotting the bitemark…

“Don’t worry, dearest, we’ll figure this out,” he promised, lifting the poor creature up, and hiding it in his coat for warmth. “We will,” he repeated, wishing he could have believed it, and took uncertain flight in the fanciful gale.


	9. Home for Christmas

Aziraphale cursed himself a lot in the following days. Or possibly weeks. He couldn’t be bothered to count. And what did it matter? He should have simply been able to fight off the heavenly danger - to protect Crowley. Instead, the demon had had to come up with a self-sacrificial plan. He had correctly estimated that the enraged archangel would not care for the movements of something as small and natural as a snake - as opposed to those of a demon. So he changed form, poisoned the enemy, and… that was it. With only so few and thin so-called clouds of magic left in the world, he had no power to draw on for changing back. He was stuck - again - in snake form, just as he must have known he would be. Yet he still went through with the courageous plan, and saved both of them.

But now? Aziraphale couldn’t even figure out a way to get him back to normal. Neither could anyone else, it seemed. No matter the new series of masterfully constructed lies about it serving the greater good, most of the angel colony wasn’t even willing to waste so much as a thought on helping a demon. Then they could just sort out their problems on their own, too, for all Aziraphale cared. He had only asked them anyway, because Anathema was stumped.

After a lot of fruitless research and running around, they decided it was best for them to go home to their cottage down south. For one thing, it was slightly warmer. For the other… it was the only common home they had ever shared. It was where they both wanted to be if those bloody heavenly idiots were going to usher in the end of the world anyway.

Yes, _both_ of them definitely missed the little cottage. It was comfortable, well-protected, and it was full of good memories. Plus, no nosy neighbours gave them strange stares when Aziraphale was staring into the eyes of a snake, and then talking to him like one would to their best friend. People around them had no way to know that was exactly the case.

A certain drawback - and at the same time, advantage - of the animal form was that it was much more difficult to keep up mental defences in it. And so, slowly but surely, Aziraphale managed to peek into enough surface-adjacent thoughts to figure out what had been going on with Crowley during the past year or so. He saw the nightmares, and once he had, he was very careful not to touch the poor serpent in a manner that was to any degree reminiscent of how his former captors had grabbed him for venom-milking.

Maybe this helped somewhat, or maybe the animal form possessed one more, indirect advantage - but the point was, Crowley’s nightmares stopped in a matter of weeks after that snowstorm. Part of his haunting fears had already come through: he was stuck as a snake. This time around, though, instead of being exploited by a particularly greedy and inhuman so-called person, he was being shown everyday that, no matter the shape or size, he was safe and loved.

Or maybe the trick was that he had to fall asleep after purring for a long time in his own hissing language. Aziraphale was all too happy to provide reasons for that.

When they were not running around, chasing their tail as they searched for a solution, they spent long hours talking - partly aloud, and partly with their thoughts, as their respective corporations allowed. Bit by tiny bit, Aziraphale managed to convince Crowley that, although having more angels around was interesting in its own way, and of course said angels would by default have some things in common with Aziraphale, he didn’t enjoy their company nearly as much as he loved being with his age-old counterpart. He even caught Crowley feeling sorry that he ended up cutting ties with the colony.

Out in the world, or in the safety of their home, whenever Crowley was asleep, Aziraphale still often spent his time berating himself - for any number of things. Mostly, of course, for the snake situation; but nowadays, also for not understanding sooner what Crowley had been going through.

… which was what he was doing when the ethereal alarms went off. Acting quickly, he shook Crowley awake, and secured him around his non-dominant arm. He grabbed a slightly dented ancient sword he had dug up after Halloween with the other, and marched of the house, towards where his mental radars were screaming about intruders.

He stopped short when he saw three familiar faces emerge from behind the windshield of the Bentley. Upon a tiny hiss from Crowley, he remembered to at least lower his sword for spectating.

“We thought we’d bring it back,” Newt offered quietly. “I wish I could find such an amazing car. I was driving all the way, and it still didn’t break down,” he added with a small smile.

“I took care of sleeping beauty,” Anathema said smugly. Something in her eyes suddenly reminded Aziraphale that her ancestor, Agnes, had died taking the entire village green out with her.

“Thank you, I think?” he said, still a bit uneasy. “He appreciates the care very much,” he added, quickly reacting to an urgent squeeze on his wrist.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Hayliel muttered somewhere behind the couple’s back. They shuffled to the side to fully reveal the nervous angel. “The witch…”

Anathema cleared her throat.

“... Anathema explained what happened to you. And it’s not right! You were just trying to help people, the higher-ups shouldn’t think badly of you! Or attack you! Or your friends!” she continued, volume rising with every sentence, until she was all red in the face, and struggling to keep her wings from showing, thus wasting valuable magic.

“You do know Crowley is a demon, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked, doubtful of the possibility that any member of the angel colony could show such a change of heart.

“Yes, but he was only helping, too! It’s not fair, and it - it shouldn’t happen again!” Hayliel declared. “I brought you my dagger,” she said, pulling a shiny piece of metal out of her pocket. She must have seen mistrust and alarm in their eyes, because she quickly dropped it onto the still snowy ground. “Technically, it was supposed to be a pen-knife, but there was some mix-up in the resources department, and I got this one,” she rushed to explain, “and I only used it as a pen-knife, but it’s still properly holy, a bit, so it might help if someone tries to attack you again?”

No one moved or said a word.

“I… um… I’ll just wait in the greenhouse,” Hayliel said quietly. “Don’t want to be in your way.”

With that, she turned on her heel, and ran into the small building.

“She means well,” Anathema noted. She picked up the knife, and brought it to the still flabbergasted Aziraphale. Barely had he pocketed it, a scream came from the greenhouse, and they all rushed in after the angel.

“This is supposed to be extinct!” Hayliel was still practically screeching. “And this one, too! And this! And that! And look at that! Oh, my God, this is why my files kept disappearing!”

“She used to work on reports about extinct species,” Aziraphale explained quietly, his brain still running mostly on autopilot.

“Wait. You have a greenhouse full of extinct plants?!” Anathema asked, nearly vibrating with excitement.

“Er… yes?”

“This changes everything!” the young witch cried out, her volume putting Hayliel to shame. “This is an incredible amount of bound magic! And he was the user! I have it, I have the solution! Wait here, I need some chalk!” she yelled, and ran back to the car to get her supplies. Once she was back in the small glass building, she began drawing elaborate patterns around the dumbfounded spectators, muttering to herself in at least three different languages during the process.

Once she was done, she extended her arm in an almost commanding manner, and, mesmerised, Crowley slithered forward to coil around it instead of his angel.

“The rest of you, out!” she said, and no-one dared contradict her.

The star of Bethlehem from so many Christmas nights ago could have hidden behind the brilliance that filled the shattering greenhouse.


	10. Here's Your Captain Speaking...

Newt, Anathema, Hayliel, Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting around the fireplace, drinking hot cocoa, spiced with some alcohol in four cases, and drowned in cream in one (although Hayliel, too, was taking curious sniffs near the others’ mugs, so it was just a matter of time to “corrupt” her, really).

None of them pretended to have properly understood the explanation Anathema had given them about how she managed to channel the magic from long ago that Crowley had used to bring back the plants, and turn it towards helping him regain his human form again. For now, they were just incredibly happy about it. Giddy, even - although that might have been the alcohol; Aziraphale measured it very generously, even though it had taken him a long time to carry it home from the shop without using any miracles (either to shorten the way, or to create more bottles).

Before they had settled down, they even threw together a quick little Christmas tree using one of the plants from the greenhouse (which would soon become properly extinct now), and whatever they found lying around the living room. With the renewed, light drizzle of snow outside (the weather had some sense of decency, after all), it would have been the perfect Christmas Eve.

And then the occult alarms around the house went off, just a second before the television switched itself on, and tuned to a thankfully non-existent channel that showed a cavern full of not quite non-existent shapes swirling in the background (nauseating to any magically gifted onlooker), and an impatient Adam in the foreground.

“Is this thing working?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “Blast, what might have gone wrong? Demon bureaucrats are horrible consultants…”

Crowley, who was used to Hell turning up in his media, was the first to recover.

“It’s working. Er… sorry, you just surprised us, is all.”

“Oh, wicked! So, I hear you’ve been looking for me?”

“Yes!” Anathema piped up. “For over a year! Would it hurt you to pick up the phone?!”

“Sorry, the reception is horrible down here, even for me. So, you’ve figured it out?”

“Wait, what?! You knew all along?! And you didn’t tell us?”

“No, no, no, I just saw that miracles weren’t really always working - so I popped down to look for answers.”

“And?”

“It turns out _other dad_ messed with things when I decided not to destroy the world for him… I was sorta too busy to notice where the power was coming from. Anyway, I ended up a bit stuck here, because someone has to guard the metaphysical remains of all the angels and demons that don’t survive the trip to Earth.”

His audience took a long minute to process all that. The general stupor was broken by Hayliel pulling urgently on Aziraphale’s sleeves.

“Angels?” he asked back, right on cue.

“Well, yeah. It’s a long fall, and the blackouts are getting ever longer. Sorry.”

“What happens with those you’re guarding?” Newt asked this time.

“They’ll get to try again later. Wouldn’t want to cause overpopulation, now, would we?” the laughed.

“Why can’t you just fix it, though?” Anathema inquired. “You could come back, and…”

“Oh, I will. It won’t take too long now for the estates above and below to vacate, then I can just seal this up temporarily - and I’ll get to explain to Brian, Wensley, and… oh, my God, Pepper… where I’ve been… oh, joy…”

“I’ll be there for moral support, if you want,” Anathema offered, “but again: why won’t you just fill up the reservoirs?”  
“Because I still don’t think anyone would learn anything from me fixing things for them. I’ll make sure nothing apocalyptic happens, but the rest is really not on me. Are we done with the twenty questions?”

“Well… sure.” Anathema sighed. “Come over for a hot chocolate and some more persuasion if you feel like it.”

“Not quite yet,” Adam said with a grin.

“In that case… merry Christmas.”

“And a happy new age,” he winked.

“Merry Christmas,” the rest of the room echoed as the connection faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, for now - I might revisit this fic at some point in the now hazy and mysterious future. Thank you for reading!


End file.
